Paper–Thin
by SassyMuse
Summary: Tom tricked Harry into thinking he could save Ginny in the CoS if he used the diary. Harry was imprisoned within its pages. Warning: slash, non-con, disturbing themes.


Paper–Thin

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JKR and Warner Bros. No money was made from writing this.

Summary: Tom tricked Harry into thinking he could save Ginny in the CoS if he used the diary. Harry was imprisoned within the pages.

_Italicised dialogue taken from CoS p.226-7._

**Warning:**** slash, non-con, disturbing themes.**

–

'_Don't be dead! Please don't be dead! Wake up!'_

'_She won't wake,' said a soft voice._

'_You've got to help me, Tom.' _

–

Paper rustles. A phantom touch skims across his flanks, and is lost to the blanket darkness.

The smell of leather pungent, while warm wetness is breathed against his neck and slow moving pain skitters back and forth along his spine as warm skin slides across his back.

He is lost. He has forgotten and is forsaken.

Ghostly strokes glide across his stomach.

He used to ask so many questions.

When can I go back?

How peculiar. Back where? He doesn't know anything else. He's always been here, hasn't he?

Light hands dance along his thighs.

Will she be all right?

He doesn't know who _she_ is.

Just – a collection of figments: the prickling feeling of embarrassment, a flash of orange hair, awful singing with giggling and a girl that lied still, face down in the shallow pool of water reflecting the flickering torchlight.

She dead, isn't she?

She was motionless, on the cold stone floor, except for her wet hair that sluggishly floated, red glinting in the strands.

"Yes, Harry," the tone is soothing.

Am I?

The ghostly touch caresses and strokes his skin.

"No, not yet," the voice whispers.

But, soon?

"Hush," the word is crooned, fingers carding through his hair as others curl and settle in his lap.

And you killed her.

It wasn't a question but voice still answers, "Yes."

… Why?

"To survive."

No, why?

Why am I here?

A grin stretches widely, pressing against his shoulder.

The hands tighten.

He feels – he gasps – fast forceful pressure and jagged pain quickly rocks up his spine.

"You are mine," the hands unclench; fingers disentangle themselves from his hair and flit from between his legs, snaking across his chest, arms like prison bars pulling him close.

There is a shift, the world tilts on its axis, and stars flash behind his eyes as pleasure ricochets through his body and mind.

"My obsession," The words are panted, the hot air scorching his skin. He struggles to find meaning in the words as sensation threatens to overwhelm him.

"I – own – you." The words are punctuated by quick thrusts. Fingernails bite into his skin like iron shears. Warmth trickles down his sides.

"My horcrux."

The secret admission muffled against the nape of his neck as teeth sink into skin, and he arches back at the heightened sensation of pain and pleasure.

"My soul." The words press hot into his burning skin, branding him.

His scar pulses and – and, it's too much, too soon – he's not supposed to feel this way, this fast rush of pleasure thundering up his spine and exploding up and outwards radiating heat and light.

The ties to his mind, sliced clean through and he's hurtling upwards and away…

He comes to, limp and wrecked, as hot floods tear through him and he groans. The new, but familiar twist of the knife-like pain cuts the pleasure as darkness descends again.

Words flow through the settling blackness, "Your existence, here, is eternal… If I wish it."

–

The warmth leaves and the voice is quiet – gone.

And the endless horrific dullness falls, submerged in the faint acrid smell of dried ink and cracked leather, as the paper flatness returns.

No sight. No sound. Nothing – except the stagnant blankness that consumes him, clawing at his mind, eating his thoughts.

Twin trails of numbness flows down his face and is caught by his rising hands.

It is forever, unchanging and he is reminded of the cold, still water and the dead body that dwelled there and wishes it'd been him. Wishes it were over. Please – _just_ – let it be over. Please, let it _end_.

He stills, his limbs frozen.

–

There, etched in a diary, is the simple sad drawing of a boy sketched upon a paper-thin canvas.

–

Paper rustles.

His hands are covering his face.

Why?

Had he been crying?

He doesn't remember.

He feels a light touch tickling down his spine…


End file.
